Quitting Time

One hour until the starting gun fired yesterday, things were not looking good. I’d registered for the Steamtown Marathon as a “FUN RUN,” a way to run long while testing fuel, gear, pacing strategy, the mantra “you’re stronger than you think you are, more powerful than you know,” in real-time conditions complete with catering, cheering crowds, and camaraderie of other runners.

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But given that I was operating on 4 hours of sleep and a lost voice; the weather forecast called for 70% chance of rain, the doctor had diagnosed me with a partially-torn hamstring less than 48 hours earlier, and the friend who was supposed to pick up my race number nowhere to be found, the run was looking like it was going to be whatever the opposite of Fun is.

The starting gun fired, everyone whooshed past me, and I had the same feeling I always do: I’m going to be the very last person to finish this race.

I uttered the mantra, “you’re stronger than you think you are, more powerful than you know,” and all I can say was, I wasn’t buying it.

Like not even close.

I just felt totally demoralized.

It wasn't raining outside yet, but I had really messy weather in the head.

I’d seen some old friends, who were anxiously asking “gonna break 3:00 today?” and seen some colleagues going to finish their first marathons, who were poised to finish before me.

Waves of insecurity started to well up in me as I got passed, and passed, and passed and passed.

My internal monologue went something like this: I’m going to close down the course. This is embarrassing. It’s not even raining yet. The course is all down hill. I can’t believe I woke up at 1:30 am to drive 200 miles to get here. I can’t finish this. I hate this. I have to pee. I’m such a failure. How am I going to explain this to anyone? I’m going to make my hamstring worse. Everyone is expecting a PR and I don’t even think I have the strength to run 2 hours slower than that. Why am I doing this? I want to be home with my husband and my son. This is so stupid. I have to spend so much time away from them during the week. I’m going to be so embarrassed about my time. I’m going to have to ask them to take my name out of the race records. And what if I make my hamstring worse, and can’t do the Hat Trick at the RW Half, MCM, NYC, or Philly? All that time and money and effort I invested to get to those starting lines – down the drain. I’m so DUMB! What do I need another medal for? So stupid! So not worth the investment! I’m an idiot!

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Now Steamtown is a point-to-point course. So I was facing the prospect of having to spend 25 more miles in my own miserable company. Yuck.

That’s right, I realized. I am in the driver’s seat here. I paid for this race. I drove here. I get to decide what it’s going to be about. I get to determine how much I enjoy it. There’s only one way to the finish, so just settle down, run at a pace that feels relaxed, execute your fueling strategy, so you don’t run out of gas and get even more miserable, stop to go to the bathroom, whenever you need to, and just enjoy the ride.

I resolved to drop out at the 20-mile mark – after all, that would give me the long run I’d registered for the race looking for - then hitch a ride to the finish.

I repeated my “take back my marathon experience” mantra: MY GAME, MY ?#@!& RULES and focused on refueling every 25 minutes. So I stopped thinking about running 26.2 miles or even 20, which seemed so overwhelming. I stopped to go to the bathroom – even waited in line for the port-o-lets – and walked through all the aid stations. I even stopped at mile 18 to walk with a friend who was bonking big time and give him a pep talk.

And weirdly, the miles just clicked by.

By the time I reached 20 I had a ton of energy, and I realized that all I had to do was run two 3-milers.

Nothing was broken.

And nothing was falling off.

And it would probably be a lot quicker to run to the finish then to try to hitch a ride there.

I felt a surge of energy in my heart and in my legs. I don’t know exactly what my splits were but I know that I just kept accelerating, and passed many people in the last 6 miles who I hadn’t seen since the starting line. I know I wore a Cheshire-Cat grin the entire time. During the entire last 6.2 miles, the only words that haunted me were I'm SO glad that I didn’t quit.

I have never felt like a medal was so hard won. But I walked away with a far-more enduring reward - the confidence that I can ignore the negative messages in my brain for what they are - just insecurity- and focus on the present tense, I'll discover a reserve of mental and emotional and physical strength that I never knew was there. And chances are that if I can do that in a on the road, I can do that in so many other areas of life too.

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